


Like Light Passing Through

by PepperPrints



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: AU, Blow Jobs, Come Shot, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:21:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29473893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperPrints/pseuds/PepperPrints
Summary: While stranded during a mission on Tatooine, Din receives a generous offer of help.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker
Comments: 42
Kudos: 495





	Like Light Passing Through

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [【翻译】Like Light Passing Through（《当你像光穿过我的心》）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29967576) by [Brumebird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brumebird/pseuds/Brumebird)



> A combination prompt fill for an anon that requested "Dust floating in golden sunlight" and three (!!!) people who requested "The feel of fingers brushing together by accident." Thank you to Scourge of Nemo for being a beta! Read their Bobadin; it's fantastic.
> 
> This is another inevitable play on the AU of "Luke gets stuck on Tatooine for a few more years and inevitably bumps into Din."
> 
> This is a oneshot PWP and as such I'm being very indulgent.

Under the oppressive heat of twin suns, even Din’s armour has a hard time compensating. Tatooine is notoriously unforgiving, and today feels worse than any of his previous excursions to this dry corner of the galaxy. Then again, it may be Din’s frustration getting the better of him, rather than the weather.

Three Jawas chatter in front of him, puttering around behind their vendor stall, as Din struggles to collect his patience, along with collecting his fractured memory of their language. 

“It’s -- old,” he argues, his voice stilted in their tongue. “I wouldn’t pay that for… new.” 

They laugh at him without any fear of holding back, and it burns worse than the sun. “You can look around,” one invites with open amusement. “You won’t find anything better.”

Din scowls behind his helmet, and he’s afraid that they may be right. The Razor Crest blew a power converter and finding a replacement isn’t easy. The Jawas have the only workable piece of hardware, and it looks half ready to break as well. The unfortunate reality may be that he has no other choice.

“Hey. You can’t be serious.” 

Without any prompting whatsoever, a figure appears at Din’s elbow. He’s a local, given his state of dress: shielding himself from the onslaught of the heat and sand. He helps himself to the converter, giving it a surveying eye before he scoffs. “You’re selling this to him for how much?” he asks disbelievingly. “I wouldn’t pay half that.” 

The Jawas begin to argue, but the newcomer simply shakes his head. “He’ll be lucky if this doesn’t break the second he plugs it in,” he states dryly, giving the converter a little shake. “Then you’re going to have a Mandalorian upset with you. Do you really want that?” 

They glance at each other, clearly debating, before they relent with a mumble.

“Half,” they relent reluctantly, and Din catches the stranger’s eye -- receiving an obliging shrug in assessment of their offering.

Considering it good enough, Din tosses his credits on the stall. The Jawas collect it eagerly, clearly considering it a win regardless, and Din will have to take what he can get. 

As he walks away, the stranger keeps stride with him, and Din clears his throat. “Thank you,” he offers mildly. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he replies easily. “They know my face, so they're less inclined to rip me off.” He pauses for just a moment before he passes the converter over, adding quickly. “I was mostly making that up; about it breaking, by the way. It _is_ old, but if you do it right, it’ll stabilize just fine. I’ve done it before.” 

Din lingers on the notion, knowing he could simply leave it at that, but… 

“Would you like to do it again?” 

\--

The Crest is docked privately, but unfortunately not fully shielded from the unforgiving sun. Light filters in through the broken ceiling, despite the owners’ best efforts to keep things up to par. It creates a strange effect: like light passing through the leaves of trees, and it casts his company in odd illumination.

He’s shed his protective gear while he works, leaving himself in a flowing shirt that doesn’t seem to lend itself well to burying his hands into the Crest, but who is Din to judge? He lays on his back, stretching his arms up under an open panel to wrestle the old broken converter free. Din sits casually beside him, ready to assist as much as he can.

“Are you a mechanic?” Din asks as he passes him a tool, and the man laughs more than Din anticipates. 

“Not at all,” he assures him. “My aunt and uncle own a moisture farm. I just do a little bit of everything -- kind of have to, in order to stay afloat here.”

Din understands the sentiment easily enough. Tatooine doesn’t lend its citizens much opportunity, and survival likely depends on adaptability -- which is a notion Din understands easily. 

“So, do I call you Mando?” he asks, glancing up from his work to shoot Din a smile.

“If you want,” he obliges, and the man raises a brow.

“That’s not really an answer,” he observes, but he accepts it with a shrug. “I’m Luke, by the way.” 

“Thank you, Luke,” he answers with deliberate courtesy. “I can pay you for your help today.” 

Another laugh -- Din isn’t sure what to do with it. “It’s fine,” he promises, lifting one knee up to brace himself as he yanks stubbornly at the fried converter. “I should be thanking you for giving me something to do. I’m bored out of my mind most days here.” 

Din inclines his helmet, watching how the low dip of his collar shifts when he moves, exposing more of his chest. The light drifts in through the Crest’s open doors, bathing him in sunlight. Dust catches in the rays, floating in the golden light with an odd weightlessness that somehow seems… unnatural. 

“Hello?” 

“Mh?” Din intones uselessly, glancing up to find Luke arching a brow at him. 

“I said: can I have that?” he repeats, pointing to the new converter. 

Oh. “Right,” Din says, offering it obligingly, but Luke accepts it with a knowing grin. When he takes it, their fingers brush, and Din finds himself struck very still by even the barest contact--

But Luke doesn’t comment on it, going back to work, and Din frowns behind the shield of his helmet. 

“There,” Luke announces after a moment, pushing himself out and sitting up. “Looks like you’re all set now.”

Grabbing a nearby rag, he wipes his hands off. It’s a slow, deliberate motion: working between each finger purposefully. Din finds himself drawn to the gesture, and he’s again reminded of the suffocating heat surrounding him. 

“Let me pay you for time,” Din reiterates, and Luke shakes his head. 

“I told you: it’s fine,” he repeats with a smile. “Really. I owe you for the change of pace. It’s not every day you meet a Mandalorian.” 

Mh. Din accepts the concession with a mild nod. Across from him, Luke draws his knee up, letting his hands idly toy with one of the tools. “Can I ask you about it?” he requests, politely enough. “About being a Mandalorian, I mean. You hear a lot of rumours, and I’d rather know the truth.” 

It’s a shockingly earnest request, which is what makes Din more inclined to answer it honestly. “What sort of rumours?” he prompts. “I can tell you what’s true and what isn’t.” 

A smile quirks briefly in the corner of Luke’s mouth, and he thinks for a moment. “Some people say you all work for the Empire now,” he remarks carefully, clearly tentative, and Din isn’t surprised by the notion -- he wishes he could be. He’s sure many Mandalorians took refuge in the reliable pay for the Empire’s hunters, though no Mandalorian worth their title should sink to such a level.

“False,” Din tells him flatly. “Some of us have pride.” 

Luke’s smile spreads: it’s the answer he was looking for, clearly. “What about your code of honour?” he asks. “Is that the truth or an old legend?” 

Again, Din isn’t surprised. The work of a hunter can often seem contradictory to a creed of honour. Bounty hunting is considered the work of riffraff; low lives and crooks -- hardly the business suited to a noble warrior of an ancient code. Again, the reality is that nothing is so simple -- and both things can coexist at once.

“That’s true,” Din replies. “I swore a Creed when I was given my armour.” 

Something in Luke’s face softens at that. He glances at Din, his eyes slowly following him up and down, as if taking him in fully for the first time. 

“And now you can’t take it off,” Luke affirms slowly, glancing up to the impassable shield of Din’s helmet. “Right?” 

There’s something in Luke’s expression that Din can’t readily define. He’s not looking at Din with pity -- pity isn’t something Din could stomach. Instead it’s… almost sympathetic, as if the notion resonates with him somehow. 

As if he recognizes the loneliness implied in it. 

“Right,” Din answers quietly. 

Luke merely watches him for a moment, the sun catching in his hair and making it look golden. Slowly, as if thinking his motions through deliberately, he sets the tool down, and he moves forward on his knees. 

“Any of it?” he asks cautiously. “At all?” 

Din swallows against the tension rising in his throat. Luke closes the gap between them, one hand pressing to Din’s calf, and Din’s pulse skips. With his back pressed to the wall of the ship, there’s nowhere for him to move -- though it’s not as if he makes any motion to object when Luke rests his hands on Din’s knees, gently easing his legs apart. 

“You can tell me to stop,” Luke offers, one palm moving cautiously higher up Din’s thigh. “If I’m not allowed to, I’ll stop.” 

Din can’t quite believe he hears him over the sound of his own racing heart. Din doesn’t stop him; he doesn’t manage to do much at all -- other than stare at Luke as he reaches up to fumble with the zipper of Din’s pants. Luke laughs a little as he does it, self-deprecating as he struggles -- and the sound breaks some of the strange spell he has over him, allowing Din some sense to speak. 

“Sorry,” Luke manages self consciously, shooting Din a nervous smile. “I’ll get it. Just, ah…” 

With a sudden clarity, Din moves his hands. Nudging Luke’s aside gently, he takes over: working his pants open and freeing his half-hard cock. Even that much threatens his better sense: his breath catching in his throat -- and Luke responds with a soft sigh of his own. 

“Okay,” Luke murmurs, as if gathering his nerves -- simultaneously bold and tentative at the same time.

Before Din can clarify or try to reassure, Luke bows his head and closes his lips around the head of his cock.

Din makes a noise -- a mixture of a groan and a curse -- and Luke responds with a laugh that vibrates pleasantly across his skin. Luke rolls his tongue, wet and warm, and Din loses all sense of focus all at once. On instinct, he buries a hand into Luke’s hair, gripping potentially too tight, but the noise Luke utters is anything but objecting. 

Din braces his other hand on a fistful of Luke’s shirt, bunching it up in his fist in effort to hold himself still. The gesture pulls the loose fabric easily, baring one broad shoulder, and somehow the thought that penetrates Din’s skull is how sun-kissed his skin is; somehow managing not to burn. 

Din burns, though, every inch of his skin feeling aflame. His chest heaves with shallow, shameful gasps for breath as Luke moves steadily up and down the length of his cock. He manages a little further every time, impossibly determined, and Din isn’t actually sure how much of this he can take. 

Bracing his heel on the floor beneath him, Din tightens his fingers in Luke’s hair, the leather of his gloves tugging against soft strands. Luke groans approvingly and takes him the rest of the way, finally fitting him to the hilt in his mouth, and Din’s voice breaks. It feels like too much all at once: smothering him just as intensely as the heat of twin suns. 

“Wait,” he manages thickly, pushing back on Luke’s shoulder with deliberate intent. Shame cuts in through the impending peak of his arousal, twisting in his gut guiltily. “Luke--” 

The warning doesn’t dissuade all of Luke’s enthusiasm. He does pull back at Din’s insistence, but his hand quickly takes over the work his mouth abandoned: moving in swift, steady strokes that Din can’t possibly endure. 

Immediately, Din regrets his warning, since this is far more shameful than coming undone in Luke’s mouth. Instead, he’s spread over Luke’s handsome face: across his flushed cheek and swollen lips. The sight sends an ache through his spent body that feels like torture -- the sensation doubling when Luke wipes the corner of his mouth with his thumb, cleaning it with a sweep of his tongue. 

“So,” Luke says breathlessly, grinning and feigning casual. “How long are you staying?” 


End file.
